Announcement BDSM in Nanjing: Shanghai Dominatrix Grants a Yugoslavian's Darkest Wish

[shanghaidomme]

As a experienced dominatrix based in Shanghai, I’ve long commanded the attention of those who crave surrender. One submissive, a man from the former Yugoslavia, had been captivated by my presence online for years. Eventually, desire overpowered hesitation, and he reached out, asking for a BDSM outcall in Nanjing. His message was reverent, almost devotional—and I accepted, agreeing to bring his fantasy to life.

He reserved a suite on one of the upper floors of a Nanjing hotel. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a sweeping view of the Yangtze River, its surface shimmering beneath city lights. The space was elegant but impersonal—marble floors, beige tones—a blank canvas awaiting transformation. By the time I arrived, that room would become a sanctuary of exquisite discipline.

I entered dressed in uncompromising black: a long tailored coat, leather gloves whispering of command, and a polished case carrying instruments of precision. He greeted me shirtless and kneeling, his skin meeting the cool marble. He didn’t speak—his eyes met mine only briefly before dropping. The session had begun well before I crossed the threshold.

We needed no words. His pre-session letter had been detailed and clear: he craved pain, structure, humiliation—and above all, the cane. Its sting. Its ritual. Its brutal honesty. I motioned toward the window. The lights of Nanjing shimmered like silent voyeurs.

“Undress,” I ordered. “Kneel facing the city.”

He obeyed without hesitation, baring himself to both me and the city beyond. I opened my case with deliberate calm, arranging each cane on the lacquered table—slender rattan, weighty bamboo—each a promise in wood. His breath caught at the sight.

“Count,” I instructed, my voice steady and cool. “Miss one, and we start again.”


The first stroke cracked through the room, a sharp echo ricocheting off marble and glass. He gasped, body tightening, breath catching. I gave him a moment to feel it before the second followed, then the third. By the tenth, welts had risen in precise lines—my mark upon him, his devotion made visible. Still, I was not yet finished.


At the twelfth stroke, he faltered—his voice stumbled, a number lost. I paused, letting silence hang thick between us. Walking to the table, I poured tea from a porcelain pot, letting the jasmine scent rise into the charged air. I sipped slowly. He watched, wordless, desperate.


“From one,” I said. The cane sang again.


Each mistake meant a reset. Each cry was both a plea and a gift. I wielded the cane not in cruelty, but in control—delivering pain as something sacred. Outside, the city shimmered, breathless, bearing witness.


Fifty strokes. This time, properly counted.


I held out the cane. “Kiss it,” I said.


His lips trembled as they pressed against the wood—an offering, a seal of surrender. I leaned in, voice soft against his ear. “You asked for the cane, and I gave it. But you invited me here. Until I leave this city… you belong to me.”


I reclined on the chaise, the Yangtze’s reflection flickering across the ceiling. He remained by the door, wrists bound in silk, his body a tapestry of red lines. My art. My promise kept. The marks would fade—but the memory would remain etched deep.

Nanjing will remember me.

So will he.

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